


The Boy from the Window Ledge

by ahatfullofoctarine (orphan_account)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Marvel Cinematic Universe Fusion, Cussing, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Just Roll With It, M/M, Marvel Universe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Spider-Matt, im just throwing darts at a trope board ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 09:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16595273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ahatfullofoctarine
Summary: "'I Spent the Night With Spider-Man.'" Allura reads, tone flat as she glances up from the draft Shiro's just given her. "Really.""What can I say?" Shiro's mouth tugs at the seams, fighting to keep his expression stoic. "Sex sells."Allura closes her eyes.. . .Marvel AU. Shiro/Matt.





	The Boy from the Window Ledge

It starts, with restrained taps on the window catching Shiro one crucial second from falling completely asleep to the tune of Ulaz's chalk scratching softly on the blackboard; Ulaz himself waxing tonelessly about commensalism.  

 

Tap. Tap.

 

Or...maybe that _had_ been Ulaz five or  fifteen minutes earlier--Shiro’s been drifting in and out of consciousness, so it’s hard to tell.  Having pulled the mother of all-nighters to get his Ethics essay in on time, the 2:30 stream feels like slow murder at this point, but Course Coordinators for BIOSCI courses are sticklers for attendance and not much else.  Oh well. Shiro's fault for assuming LAWS334 would be a breezy-

 

TAP. TAP.

 

When Shiro opens the window and glances out, he doesn’t think to look _down._ Realistically if anything’s going to be tapping on the third floor window of the Castle Building, it’s going to be a bird…

 

...not some guy hanging on the ledge with a grin that's all mischief, and no remorse, and covered in sweat.  

 

“Thanks, _pretty_. Now. Scooch.”

 

He tosses in his backpack ( _BMO from Adventure Time?_ ), pulls himself up over the sill and slides into the empty seat behind Shiro just as Ulaz turns to ask the class if they’ve got questions.  Shiro’s usually content to mind his own business, but as a budding scientist, and more importantly _a_ budding scientist _trying to stay awake_ , the guy who just crawled in through the window is an anomaly.  

 

Anomalies fascinate scientists.  

 

It has nothing to do with said anomaly calling him _pretty_ \--that’s just a flattering unintended consequence and certainly nothing Shiro hasn’t heard before. If anything, ‘pretty’ is wholesome compared to the other more creative, more explicit _come-on’s_ he’s heard since he started hitting the gym.

 

When one girl raises her hand on the other side of the room, Shiro uses the distraction of the class to turn in his seat. It’s just his luck that Ulaz is in a walking mood today.

 

Window Guy's scribbling furiously into a notepad that’s on its last leaves of life when Shiro looks over, all white-knuckled chicken scratch and chaos. Shiro’s well-versed enough in deciphering Keith-script that he's able to translate, but still comes out of it even more bewildered and appalled than when he started.  

 

“You’re doing the assignment _now_?” Shiro whispers, more annoyed with the fact that he’s impressed with how easily this guy’s breezing through all of Ulaz’s questions, like they require little more effort than the time it takes to read them.  

 

Window Guy glances up long enough to gauge Shiro's expression, _shrugs,_ as if it can't be helped, flips the paper over and continues scribbling and muttering to himself. Shiro doesn't blink the entire time that he works, or maybe he forgets to because this guy's train of thought is apparently one of those unstoppable heavy-lifting freight-types that barrel violently toward destination.  

 

Against will, Shiro’s body caves and he yawns, his chair tipping precariously backward while he stretches his arms high above his head to get _some_ kind of circulation going--

 

“Shiro.”

 

Shiro nearly overbalances, both front legs of his chair thudding heavy on the ground, eighteen heads all whipping round in reflex. Ulaz is at the board waiting, chalk tapping against the black.  Window Guy snickers.

 

“Sir?” Shiro asks, fighting the urge to toss something over his shoulder.  

 

“Your answer. I assume that’s why you had your hand-- _both_ hands raised?”

 

Shiro clears his throat--

 

“He said obligate.” Window Guy pipes up, evidently without looking up if Shiro can still hear his pencil scratching against paper behind him.  “Or was it obstreperous. Actually-shit. What class is this again?”

 

A ripple goes through the class as the tension evaporates, some snickering, a few others, like the two guys a few seats down brave enough to sneak a conversation in:

 

“ _Classic_ Matt.”

 

“No wonder Ulaz fails him every semester.”

 

Maybe Ulaz heard that last one, or maybe he didn’t, but his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, boring right through Shiro, who belatedly realizes that the scribbling has stopped behind him and he’s sitting duck in the middle of a standoff.  He does what any reasonable person in his situation would do: retaliate with his sincerest, most apologetic look, fending off the instinct to smile. ‘Matt’ or whoever he is, just saved his hide.

 

“Definitely obligate.” Shiro says, picking up his pen and spinning it idly in hand again.  “Sorry, you caught me in the middle of a yawn.”

 

Caught, _right_. More like ‘ambushed’.  

 

“Obligate is correct. And not to worry; there'll be plenty of time for sleeping after today.” Ulaz turns back to the class, most likely scanning for another sucker, landing the guy closest to the front who’d been texting.  

 

“Rolo, is it.”

 

“Aww fuck.” ‘Rolo' mutters, hastily pocketing his phone.

 

“ _Finito_!” Matt declares in a whisper.  

 

Bullshit. _Bullshit_ this guy's finished.  Shiro waits till he's ninety per cent sure Ulaz is not even close to halfway done making an example out of Rolo before he glances over.

 

“You're joking right?”

 

“Why?” Matt leans forward, smiling wide enough to show his eye teeth.  “Need me to rescue you _again_ , pretty?”

 

“ _What_? I don’t-that wasn’t-”

 

“Opening bid starts at the schematics for that arm of yours, and no lower, because that is _fucking beautiful_ use of quintessence as a core.  It _is_ quintessence, right? Sensory feedback must be _off the charts_. Like you're two seconds away from pulling a Bonzo tribute or something- not that I'd mind; I love me a good Bonzo. Oh wow, your face. Hit the nail on the head, didn't I? ‘Course I did.”

 

The pen in Shiro's hand falls.  

The next two seconds defies comprehension, and, in some respects, may even be considered _excessive_ : Matt throws himself forward until he’s hanging over the edge of his desk with his feet curled around the supports. He catches Shiro’s pen and in the same movement tosses it to Shiro, hot potato. Honestly anyone in Shiro's position would stare in open-mouthed awe, so he's not at all mortified by the realization that he's doing exactly that.

 

Until Matt winks, and then Shiro slips out of that wonderland and tumbles into something just short of _how dare you_.

 

“I noticed you only stopped when you had to yawn.  You an addict or something? I won't tell, but I do have questions.”  

 

“Trade secret.” Shiro says with a deadpan stare, trying not to let the compliment get to his head and scraping whatever bravado is still lying on the ground where his jaw used to be.  

 

Where so many have expressed admiration in the aesthetic aspect of his arm, Matt is the first to correctly posit on the more functional part of it - that is, the use of quintessence.  It's a breakthrough Shiro has taken pains to be _extremely_ coy about from day one, what with all the opportunists hovering outside Dean Ryner’s office on the daily. Biomedical engineering may be lucrative especially where military applications are concerned, but Shiro’s passion had stemmed from having a personal stake in it.

 

 _It’s always been about accessibility over opulence_ \-- and what does it matter anyway, Matt looks like he’s already forgotten, waving his assignment like it’s a torch to be passed on.  

 

“Take a gander metal man.”

 

It takes Shiro about two minutes to go through the whole thing twice before tapping the top left corner of Matt's notepad where he’s only written today’s date.  Everything else was perfect, so it's a small validation Shiro's content to settle for.

 

“Huh? What? _Where_?” Matt frowns from his paper to Shiro and back to his paper again.  “No, seriously, _where_?”

 

 _Oh boy, another scatterbrain_. Shiro can’t stop himself from smiling. Voltron University is so completely up to its armpits in this subset of genius-the kind who can recite pi to one thousand decimal places but still manage to wear their shirt inside out-that some days it's as if God Herself made a template and forgot She left the copier on.  

 

To be fair, Voltron’s Science Faculty is _exactly_ the kind of wonderful Eden designed specifically for nurturing these kinds of individuals; many of its lecturers content to let some administrative blunders fly in favor of letting a student’s work speak for itself. Disturbing, yes, but other faculty heads have long given up on establishing some kind of accountability against Dean Ryner since most of the donations are made to her department and she’s nice enough to share.

 

(Plus, no one's going to argue ethics with the woman who not only created the first clean, _renewable_ energy source in her own basement but also _refused_ to patent the technology to turn a profit. That’s just _asking_ for trouble.)

 

“You _dope_ .” Shiro smiles, revelling in the satisfaction.  “How are they gonna know it's _yours_?”

 

“ _Preeetty_ sure Ulaz's adept at interpreting my Picasso-esque proclivities.” Matt says, but obliges Shiro nonetheless, penciling in his full name and ID number--winking at Shiro when he glances up afterward because he’s caught Shiro staring.  

 

Shiro keeps his expression neutral and casually shifts his gaze out the window.  Reminds himself that his elevated pulse is due to the combined effect of a lack of sleep and the brief, terrifying cross-examination he’d endured from Ulaz two minutes earlier-- _not_ from the way ‘Matthew Holt’ just smiled at him.

 

As flattering as it is, Shiro's determined to see his self-imposed ‘No Dating Until I Graduate’ ban through. He's got one semester left, and a lucrative internship waiting in the wings if he maintains his GPA, so he can't afford anything that could take his eyes off target. He didn’t end the best relationship of his life to move to a different country in pursuit of a dream _just_ to get swept off his feet by the first pretty face to express genuine interest in not just him, but his work, too.

 

Still…

 

Knowing is half the battle. As astute as a man may be about his priorities _,_ a man also has two _eyes_ , and it’s not as if Shiro isn’t using them here.  

 

Following a string of bad attempts to get back on the proverbial horse post-Adam in first year, Shiro regrets telling the gang about his self-imposed ban. Partly because there was a disturbing element of disbelief from all parties present-to the point that Lance immediately started up a betting poll.  It was meant to be a secret, but Keith snitched and got shunned by the rest of the punters for it. It _had_ been Shiro and him against the world for a hot minute until the cute coed Keith had been crushing on introduced Keith to the clubbing scene.

 

So much for _that_ support system.  

 

“Alright. That is us for today.” Ulaz announces from the front of the class where he's erasing the blackboard. Rolo looks catatonic almost.  “Assignments you may leave in my pigeonhole on the Kirk mezzanine by five, or I can take them off you now if you're happy with them. Enjoy your break.” Ulaz adds, amid everyone’s slow hustle of stationery being shoved into bags and zippers sealing them shut.

 

... _and then there's Matt._

True to his anomalous leanings, it’s almost as if someone’s set off firecrackers in the guy's pants. He darts and weaves in and around people, actually somersaulting over and sliding under desks to get to the door quick as he can, like his life depends on it. Shiro’s never seen anyone move _that_ agilely before in his life, and he knows this as innately as someone who can remember every single instance of his early teens spent chasing after Keith and his merry band of delinquents, who probably have cheetah DNA.

 

“ _Matthew_ .” Ulaz calls, stern gaze magically freezing the latter in place: one foot comically midstep and halfway out the door.  “A _word_.”

 

Matt pivots and plants his foot in a wide stance, grinning sheepishly while the rest of the class shuffles along as if this is a normal occurrence. A few even pat him consolingly on the shoulder.

 

“Lazzy. _Baby_ .” Matt drawls. “Because I love you--I’ll do one better and give you _five_ : ‘Uhh no thanks I'm good?’”

 

Shiro exhales deep through his nostrils, forcing the laugh trying to claw its way up his throat back down.  As Vice President of the Voltron University Students Association (VUSA) he knows a thing about power dynamics, and how quickly one can lose face if even a _quarter_ is given to the disruptive force.  He and Allura alternate between who plays Good Cop and Bad Cop at VUSA meetings, because while Voltron boasts the best and brightest, people will _always_ be people and nothing scatters the herd more than a well-timed joke.  The key, and hardest thing to pulling off a good Bad Cop is not smiling, which Shiro is good at, and Allura is _scarily adept_ at.   

 

(Shiro’s willing to testify to an open courtroom that she relishes playing Bad Cop for none other than the simple pleasure of staring down someone and daring them to repeat their smartass remark to the entire class. The only one who might actually get off on the scrutiny is Lance, because he’s never exactly been withholding about his infatuation with her--as sure as Allura's never been withholding about her irritation with him. Shiro, as a workaround usually steps in if he so much as _breathes_ in Allura’s direction, but Lance has been eerily well-behaved the past three council meetings and Allura's taken a backseat to chairing as well.  Shiro has his suspicions, but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.)

 

“That's _six_.  Thank you.” Ulaz adds, to the students giving in their assignments on their way out.

 

Ulaz _has_ to have some other leverage separate from grades to keep Matt from bolting, because the latter for all his desperate need to be clear of the room, has forgotten it, and obediently hopped onto a desk.  Kicking his feet back and forth as if to serve as a viable substitute for the actual running he’d like to do. When he notices Shiro staring he stops fidgeting and raises an eyebrow at him.

 

There’s no other way Shiro could explain how the obliviousness Matt's able to convey just _grates_ at him, other than that he's become so familiar with playing Bad Cop that he recognizes the scent of mutiny more than obedience, and Matt Holt is lighting up the radar like Times Square on New Year's Eve.

 

A slow smile spreads across Matt’s face the longer Shiro refuses to back down. Shiro’s thankful for the buffer that the girl in front of him provides, stepping into Matt’s line of sight and pinching his cheek while Shiro passes.  Matt doesn’t flinch, but Shiro does, internally.

 

Who needs knives when your local manicurist will suffice?

 

“ _Third strike_ , Matty.  What's the sob story gonna be this time? ‘ _Robber shot my uncle?’_ ”

 

“Oh Ezor, my _beautiful shot of tequila_ .  Robber shot my uncle’ is _so_ last season. I’ve still got skin in the game, so don't count me out _just_ yet.”

 

Ezor snorts and ruffles Matt’s hair, laughing as she dodges Matt’s retaliating swipes.

 

There’s a dogged intent in that last part, so unlike the cheerful tone Shiro's heard up until now, that it may as well have been said by a completely different person altogether. It’s all Shiro can do but hang back in the hallway and chance one final look.

 

Matt is yawning and casually stretching his arms above his head while Ulaz’s eyebrows are knitted together, lips tightening into a thin line as the door closes. Ulaz is one of the few professors who takes the time to learn about his students, provide valuable career and coaching advice, so it doesn't strike Shiro as odd until he hears Ulaz order, sternly _despite_ Matt’s protests,

 

 _“Shirt off_.   _Show me.”_

 

Shiro stumbles, choking mid yawn.  It might be his sleep-deprived self seeing the worst humanity has to offer--as one is usually wont to do when running on fumes--or he might actually have just stumbled across something _skeevy_ _as_ _hell_.  

 

As class rep and more importantly, _VP of VUSA_ , he has half a mind to rap on the door and demand answers.  The more rational half that is somehow still awake insists that further research is needed. Rational!Shiro goes one further and adds that  Ulaz is one of the few lecturers Shiro likes and respects--this one tutorial notwithstanding--and Shiro's always prided himself as a guy who always thinks things through. For all of Shiro’s ambition and good grades, Ulaz’s recommendation letter cemented his foot in the door at Voltron, and he's never going to forget that.  

 

“Sleep first, then answers.” Shiro decides, continuing down the hall.  

 

Only a terrible scientist would commence an investigation with the conclusion already fully-formed in their head.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time Shiro sees Matt, he isn’t expecting to see him.  It’s mainly because Shiro has concluded over the course of so many weeks having observed zero Matt in lectures or Ulaz’s afternoon tute stream, or even _around campus_ \--that Matt was someone he’d completely hallucinated.  Ulaz at one point even asks if Shiro’s getting enough sleep when he notices Shiro not showing up to his assigned morning tutes, and the resulting mortification from that feels something akin to confirmation. Shiro loses his nerve in confronting Ulaz, and stops trying to find Matt after that.  Just concentrates on getting through the rest of the semester.

Naturally  _that’s_ when Matt resurfaces.

Shiro’s lying with his head in Allura's lap, under the shade of one of many oak trees in the quad when it happens: one earphone in, chillout playlist having reached its end at least an hour ago.  Allura had been regaling him about the latest editorial drama concerning  _Atlas_ : the student newsletter that Shiro occasionally guest-writes for on Allura’s occasional insistence, until she tapers off into a soft, but meaningful deadpan delivery of:

“What, the  _fuck_.”  

When Shiro cracks an eye open, Matt is scaling the side of the Castle building with a speed and ease far exceeding that of the average free climber, almost at the third floor.  Matt has a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and Shiro has a blurry recollection of his face, but he’d recognize that backpack if it mooned him while he was blindfolded.

Not really; Shiro just looked up where one could buy a custom BMO backpack online and felt pleasantly validated that the price of Matt's was dear enough that he could reasonably assume many of his fellow struggling college students would never waste money on it.

“Does he have a deathwish?” Allura is dismayed, phone at the ready, presumably to speed dial an ambulance without a moment’s notice should Matt plummet to inevitable injury and possible death.  Shiro’s not surprised that  _she’s_ prepared for the worst, being the most practical, altruistic person he knows.  

“He’s late.” Shiro sighs while they watch Matt tap the third floor window. “Ulaz has a habit of locking the door.”

Allura giggles a little.  “How charming.”

Shiro's not too sure who she’s referring to, but either option suits so he doesn't pursue it. He knows if he _does_ point out that he’s  _met_ the genius-brained idiot climbing Castle that an inquiry may possibly be triggered and it’s just too nice of an afternoon to spend breathing life to another one of Allura’s quirky puff pieces in Atlas.  This isn’t, of course, to say that she’s lacking in inspiration.

She’s just terrifyingly  _thorough._

They breathe a collective sigh of relief when the window finally opens, a hand reaching and dragging Matt in by the scruff of his neck - most probably Ulaz’s.  

“ _Phew_.” Allura smiles. She steals Shiro’s unused earphone and plugs it in, and after a fashion, pokes him. “Pretty please?”    

“Premium’s only five dollars a month - you know that right?” Shiro teases, but he’s already halfway down his dedicated playlists trying to find the 80’s one he’d curated specifically for her.  She has this weird fascination with bygone eras and intense recollection of all the trivia she's randomly pulled out during a convo that sometimes Shiro thinks she might’ve been born in the wrong time -  but he’s fervently glad she is if that’s the case. She’s got a nice voice.

“ _We’re talking away-_ ” Allura ruffles Shiro’s hair as she sings that line, “ _I don’t know what I’m so say l_ \- don't think Coran could have survived that lawsuit, haha...” 

Something swoops in and snuffs out his relief as soon as he hears ‘lawsuit’ and Ulaz’s ‘ _shirt off’_ command echoing in his head in tandem with the synths of  _Take on Me_  starts to sound more and more like a taunt he can’t ignore.

 

. . .

 

Ulaz’s office door is closed -  _locked_ , when Shiro goes to ask about Matt.  Come to think of it, the whole Kirk building is strangely deserted save for the admin logging out of reception who Shiro  _just_ managed to catch up to while the guy was strapping on his bicycle helmet.  

“I don’t know, fishing in Mer?  Margaritas in Marmora?  _Normal_ stuff people do over summer break instead of backtracking to this institution of wishful death?” The admin says, unchaining his bike.

While Shiro’s brain goes,  _oh-_ because it really isn’t him to forget - the guy passes, wheeling his bike along the footpath through the quad.  He’s six, maybe seven feet out when he stops to swing one leg over and securing it into the pedal.

“Try Lazzy's email, he likes those.”

“Really?”

Wait.

 _Lazzy_?

The guy snorts.  “ _Sure_ , pretty .”

Shiro whirls, tugging his ear phones out - too little, too  _late_.  Matt has taken off: whooping and pedaling into the wind like he’s got the Devil himself on his tail; BMO backpack bumping up and down with the contours of the campus grounds when the latter veers off the footpath.  

BMO staring innocently back at Shiro.  

 

 

. . .

 

That.

Had jumped from taunt to declaration of war, but Shiro's determined to play this by the book; determined not to do anything so rash as to compromise his and Ulaz’s friendship - should all of this indeed prove to be a gigantic misunderstanding at the end of it like Shiro's  _sure_ it will. Plain and simply put, Ulaz just does not seem the type to abuse his position of power.  A guy with that many doctorates should be smart enough  _not to_.

Unfortunately, without the urgency of assignments to hand in and tests to prepare for, all this spare time on Shiro’s hands leaves too much room in his head for obsession to fester. Fortunately, the rec center is still open during the break, so that provides  _some_ kind of outlet to help clear his head enough to figure out a game plan.  The fitness instructors are...less enthused: Shiro punches a hole through one of the sandbags his first day, and they're worried the replacement will face the same fate before its predecessor’s replacement arrives.  

They send Keith to supervise. Keith’s the muscle in this institution, his reputation having echoed through the halls of Voltron ahead of him before the judge sealed his juvie records, but also because he relishes the difficult conversations that serve as precursor to tossing troublesome patrons out the door.  Last Shiro cared to listen, the rumor going around was that Keith was the illegitimate heir of a Galran Crime Syndicate, which is... _creative_ , if not a step above involuntary manslaughter, to say the least.

“Whoa there champ,” Keith chuckles, when Shiro finally slumps against the sandbag, forehead pressing into leather, sweat sticking his tank to his back “save some for the rest of us.”  

“Sorry.” Shiro straightens, taking the towel from Keith. “Got a lot on my mind.”

“You wanna talk?”

Keith herds Shiro over to the tables without waiting for an answer.  As warmed as Shiro is to the idea of Keith evolving into some kind of sounding board, he knows full well it's so Keith can scowl in the direction of Lance presently leading his Krav-Maga class in the dance room.  Lance can't be faulted for competence since Shiro did go with Allura to watch him pass his black belt test, but Keith always claims ‘that goddamn skirt-chaser only wanted the gig to pick up girls’.

Keith’s not  _wrong_ , since Shiro  _has_ heard some  _horrendous_ pick-up lines in the rec centre on his way to the sandbag. With their evidently nonexistent success rate - Lance  _still_ being single - Shiro suspects it's Lance's high effectiveness as an instructor that gets under Keith's skin.  

Shiro smacks him lightly in the arm with his gym towel to snap him out of it.

“How does  _no one_ see through that?” Keith grouses.

“Maybe Coran’s just happy to have someone he doesn't have to pay full time.” Shiro says, squeezing Keith by the shoulder: partly an act of giving comfort; mostly an attempt to wring out the envy.   _“_ I'm sure most of the women in there feel a lot more safe and confident for it.”

“I  _guess_. But seriously.  _Lance_?”

“ _You_ could have put your hand up.”

Shiro hides a shudder the moment he says that, trying not to think too much about the implications that a Keith-led class entails.  Those poor women.

“ _I saw that_.” Keith deadpans, shrugging Shiro's hand off. Shiro knows it doesn’t help the situation or Keith’s mood, but he can’t help but chuckle a little.  

“You’re  _intense_ Keith. It’s a self-defence class catered specifically to women.  You have to be-”

Keith’s chair screeches loudly against the floor as he stands.  “I’ve got a shower to unblock. Talk later.” He mutters, and Shiro doesn’t try to stop him when he goes.  

When Keith gets in one of his ‘moods’ the best course of action is to let that storm run its course and check in on the aftermath later.  Shiro texts Hunk asking if he can whip up an apology lasagna and he’ll reimburse Hunk for the ingredients later.

Hunk texts back that apology food is  _his_ gimmick and for Shiro to go find his own.

(But also yes, he’ll make the pasta but Shiro and Allura  _better_ stop by because he misses their stupid faces.  Classic Hunk.)

 

Shiro doesn’t have a burning desire to leave the gym immediately after, so his attention gradually wanders over to the muted television mounted on the wall.  It’s yet another news story about that costumed vigilante going around and beating up Altea’s criminal underbelly - ‘ _Spider-Boy_ ’ or whatever, but without captions the news anchor doesn’t hold Shiro’s attention for too long. Inevitably he retreats far into the peaceful astral plane of his mind where he has a drawing board pinned with logical conclusions  _not_ involving sex to explain why Ulaz would want Matt's shirt off.  It’s only when a heavy thud reverberates against the Rec Centre floor that he tunes in again, and straight to the commotion and jeers in the dance room. 

At the epicenter of the personal trainers circle, Keith has Lance in a reverse Boston crab on the wrestling mat, Lance firing off a colorful tirade of cuban expletives, shaking his head vigorously back and forth,  _refusing_ to tap out. Keith, conversely, is the  _happiest_ Shiro’s seen him.  Happier than that time four years ago when Keith proudly showed Shiro his Voltron acceptance email over video call.

Shiro sighs and texts Hunk telling him to make  _two_ lasagnas.

 

. . .

 

It never occurs to Shiro, so consumed with deducing a explanation that there could be an  _illogical_ but somehow still logical one.  Maybe that's why he's so surprised when a sweaty and out of breath Allura shows up on his doorstep a few days later to posit it.

“Did you  _run_ all the way here?”

Allura hands him her tablet on her way in, making a beeline for his fridge.  “Drove. I covered Lance’s classes today. Kind of. He still came in today. ‘ _Can’t let down the ladies!_ ’” she adds, voice dropping to a lower octave to imitate Lance while she retrieves a bottled water. “Arm in a sling, but smile a  _mile_ wide, all those girls clucking and cooing over him. Good thing Keith didn't come in today _._ ”

Shiro drops on the couch, sighing. “Yeah, can’t imagine that would have gone over well.”    

The footage is a ten second clip of Spider-Boy slinging through an empty alleyway, most likely lifted from the Altean PD.  Allura’s father is Mayor of Altea City, but Shiro suspects she didn’t use that connection to get a hold of it. There's a hotshot detective down at the thirteenth who Allura befriended from one of her CRIM seminars and most likely he’s enamored by her if he's got no qualms breaking protocol to stay in her good graces.  Not that anyone can really fault Detective Sincline: Allura is gorgeous and clever and dangerously pragmatic enough to know when to deploy either to her advantage.  

Not to imply that Sincline is a complete sucker, just that one sympathizes.  Shiro’s never met the guy, but he sure as hell can respect anyone who can hold their wits in a conversation with Alverson.

“Pause at the nine second mark.” Allura says, returning to the living room with a bottled water and dropping onto the couch beside him. “Right... _there_.”

The light aquamarine blur on Spider-Boy's Shiro had taken for granted over the course of three consecutive rewatches comes into focus.  At least, determinate enough for Shiro recognize what he's seeing.

“BMO?”

Of all things a kid's cartoon from way back when isn't the lead he was expecting, but it is more progress than any amount of imaginary bulleting and leather punching has ever made.

“ _BMO_.” Allura repeats, sculling her water in one go, and pointing the empty bottle at him. “Adventure Time is _ancient_ nerd-dom; one of the zeitgeists of my father’s generation.  You'd have to be his age or a humongous nerd to know about it.”

“Are you implying that  _I’m_ a humongous nerd?” Shiro says.  In Shiro’s defense, he only knows about _Adventure Time_ because Adam - whom the title of ‘humongous nerd’  _rightfully_ belongs to - was the one who showed it to him.

Allura hits him lightly on the arm with her bottle, tone pompous. “I’ve  _seen_ your grades  _Shirogane:_ I don’t need to imply  _anything_. Anyway, not the point.  Point is: I’ve done a bit of digging here and there, and that bag isn’t something you can get from the usual sites. You’d have to be a particularly  _dedicated, humongous_ nerd to go looking for one.  I think -”

Shiro raises a hand.  “If one might interject.” 

Allura eyes him suspiciously.

“Are you now implying that  _I’m_ a  _dedicated_ ,  _humongous_ -”

Shiro dodges as the bottle goes sailing overhead.

“But seriously,” Allura says when he finally recovers from his brief laughing fit. “I think I could be onto something.”

“You thinking of that guy we saw climbing up Castle?  You think  _he's_ Spider-Boy.”

“I do have other suspects, but yes, he's top of the list.  And the most plausible.  _Ish_.” She adds with a giggle.

“Are you sure  _this_ ,” Shiro holds up the tablet warily “isn't  _too_...circumstantial?”  

If he knows Allura, and he does, she’s not an ‘ _ish_ ’ person. ‘Ish’ is for half-asses - not people like Allura, who are  _so completely_ The Devil with an electron microscope when it comes to detail.  Case in point, Allura’s moot final that Shiro couldn’t be there to witness on account of a test that ran right about the same time.  He had seen her in the days leading up to it though: case after case covering every inch of real estate of her apartment floor; Allura ruthlessly committing verbal murder against an invisible opponent and looking all too at home with the prospect of doing it in real time. When Shiro got there, she was fanning herself with the shield she’d won - as if she’d just gotten back from completing the leisurely act of wiping the other team’s carcasses on the walls of Hell.  At least, that could be the only possible explanation to infer from their pale and sweating faces aside from bad tuna. You just don’t get a result like that from ‘ish’.

The video in his hand?  _Not_ Allura at  _all_ ; not even Allura- _ish._

“It’s an interesting theory, don’t get me wrong…” Shiro starts, but isn’t exactly rushing to finish that sentence. Truth be told he’s glad for the impulse control her company presents. Keith, Hunk and Lance went on a road trip to Mer to go lobster fishing so they won’t be back for a few days and anymore silence and he’s actually going to start constructing an actual billboard.

Allura huffs, blowing a wayward strand of white out of her face.  “That’s what Lotor said too.”

“Oh, it's  _Lotor_ now, is it?”

“ _Punk_.” Allura laughs, poking him. “Are you in?  Because if you're not, I'm going straight to Keith, and that could be...interesting. Keith's strong and all, but people say Spider-Boy can deadlift a cop car.”

Shiro’s sure  _that’s_ the pitch she was going to use on Keith as sure as he knows that it’s going to have a one hundred and ten per cent success rate.  She’s clever enough to use this knowledge against Shiro, obviously. Ever the strategist, this woman.

“Puff pieces in Atlas starting to lose their shine, huh?”

“Actually, this isn't for Atlas.  It’s for the Daily Altean. A girl could use a 10k shopping spree. Or five. I’m not greedy.” She winks.

Shiro smiles.  That reward's been up for almost eight years and steadily appreciating in value since it was announced. Journalists with freaking  _Pulitzers_ have made their play and turned up nothing - one even going so far as to hire an  _actor_.  

Forget spider. You’d have better luck catching a ghost.

“So puff pieces really  _are_ taking a nosedive.”

“ _No_ , just. I wouldn't say, nosediving, but  _plateauing_ in a sort of--oh, fuck it.”  Allura throws her hands in the air. “I bet Lotor I could figure it out.”  

Shiro slowly grinds his eyes into his fist.

"Please?” Allura goes, poking him in the bicep, like  _that'll_  whittle away the judgement.  “Lotor’s a cocky little _shit_ and I just want to relish the look on his face when I prove him wrong.  _Come on_ , it’ll be fun!  Just like Kral Zera! You remember.”

 _More like_   _trying in vain to_   _forget_. Shiro eyes her through the gaps in his fingers.

“ _Kral Zera_.” He repeats, tone flat.  “Really.  _That’s_ how you’re going to sell this.”

“I'd prefer the subtle approach, but it could go sideways, so I need extra... _muscle_.”

That's the biggest, blatant lie Shiro’s ever heard, and he's friends with  _Lance_.  He's seen Allura toss grown men twice her size hammer-throw style like they were rag-dolls during a demonstration.  If anything, the fear should be for Spider-Boy's life.  

Also historically, Allura’s one of two VUSA Presidents ever to hold the title  _and_ reign undisputed four years in a row.  Her tenure alone is a testament to the fact that Chancellor Coran and the entire student body  _adore_ her - Coran never says 'no' to any of her proposed initiatives or events, and the student population always, _always_ benefits.  Free tampons in bathrooms? Allura. Free laundry service for second and third years? Allura. Her trying to recruit  _him_ when literally there's fifty thousand people at Voltron who'd slay dragons for her in a heartbeat if she asked seems, frankly, a tad redundant.  

(And  _that’s_ boldly assuming Allura  _wouldn’t_ do the dragon-slaying herself.  That woman has a black belt in...God knows how many of those disciplines are even  _legal_ , one shudders to think.  It’s little wonder why Keith scowls less when she's around.)

Still, there's no way in hell Shiro's shelling out for a plane ticket to Marmora  _just_ to ask if Ulaz and Matt are boning.  You can’t expect to ask a question like that and come out of it unscathed. A man has his pride to consider.

And limited budget.

“Shiro  _please_.” Allura goes, her knee knocking against his, “I know you’re bored and I’m not above admitting the same.  If I have to sit through another charity dinner I’m going to start drafting a bill against small talk.”

Shiro chuckles. “Well if you do, I might have a few suggestions.”

“ _Shiro_.”

"Allura."

" _Shirooo_."

Damn it. She's doing  _The Face_ now - the one that's too cute to say ‘no’ to and too endearing to look away from.  Shiro  _swears_ she's invested time perfecting it in the time they've become friends, but even knowing that isn't enough to build some sort of immunity to it.

“Alright.” Shiro says, instantly wary at the way Allura’s eyes light up.  “But  _no_ lion costumes and  _no -_ ”

Allura plants her hands on the sides of his face and kisses him hard on each cheek and then his forehead: purposely wet and sloppy. Then she leaps to her feet, adjusting her ponytail.

“Back in twenty.  Go shower.”

Shiro narrows his eyes, watching her head for the door.

“ _Why_?”

* * *

 

It's simple enough what Allura's plan to trap Spider-Boy is: take a leisurely stroll through the not-so-well-lit parts of Oriande City and then, while the wall crawler's busy playing hero, hit him with the military-grade knockout spray Allura swiped from Alfor’s weapons cache. (“His password was ‘PASSWORD’ can you believe it?”) There'd been a whole debate as to who would play the role of Damsel in Distress which Shiro lost, abjectly.  He knows he should know better than to take up verbal arms against Voltron’s top law student by now, but Iverson didn’t teach him to go down without swinging.

On second thought, Iverson really should've taught Shiro how to pick his battles, but that's a rumination for a time not so potentially life-threatening.

 ** _“Just a small town boy,”_** Allura croons,  ** _“livin' in a lonely world.”_**

Shiro exhales deeply through his nostrils.  It's not that she doesn't have great vocal control or tone, just that if tonight winds up being his swansong, he'd rather not have Spider-Boy hand his ass to him to the beat of an 80’s synth bop. All reverence at his wake would go right out the window and the men carrying his coffin would most likely drop Shiro into the hole from laughing so hard.

**_“What? You said you were bored so I'm entertaining you now shush.”_ **

“Can it at least be something from this century?”

There’s no stopping her, obviously, but she’s always been amenable to adjustments - after she gets her way during negotiations, of course. Seeing as he’s down here and she’s on the rooftop following from a safe distance that should qualify as sufficient preamble, Shiro doesn’t think.

**_“Strangers waiting -”_ **

Too late.  

 **“ _Up and down the boulevard,_ ”** Allura belts out while Shiro groans.    ** _“Their shadows searching…"_**

He lefts and rights here and there and lets her have her fun, too busy stepping over nauseating cocktail after cocktail of blood and puke and other liquids fouler and more intimate than one can dare hazard to guess for the next twenty minutes. Occasionally he'll deliberately shoulder patrons exiting clubs or loitering out on the street, but every attempt at instigation yields little to no response. People are too plastered to register Shiro's trying to start a fight in the middle of the street, or not plastered enough to overlook the fact that he’s close to six feet tall.

Not traditionally-speaking ‘damsel’ material, but damsel enough for The Gauntlet. 

 _Presumably -_ Shiro’s slowly starting to rescind that hypothesis. While he’s grateful he's been walking for almost two hours without incident, in this killer jacket that triggers fond memories of the Garrison (yes those  _do_  exist), it niggles at him,  _just a little_ , that this night is going to go to waste.

 _“‘_ Lu  _-”_ Shiro starts.

Allura belches into the comms, purposely loud and unapologetic and they laugh.  It’s  _almost_ enough to forget that they're trying to unmask a dangerous vigilante who's put as many people in jail as he has a coma. 

Even on Oriande's sunniest you couldn't pay Shiro to take two steps through her world-famous Blue-Line--more affectionately known as ‘The Gauntlet’, by the nocturnal denizens - yet here he is,  _sauntering_ past shopfront after shopfront of men and women of varying silhouettes, illuminated from behind in blue neon.   

Well -  _attempting_ to saunter. ‘Swagger’, or Shiro's closest approximation of the term, apparently demands additional, highly unnecessary,  _highly_   _exaggerated_ swinging of the arms and an uneven gait he's concerned may come back to haunt him when he's a geriatric. He doesn't know whether to have more or less respect for Lance, since that's who Allura told him to emulate, but the jacket she lent him to look the part of 'jailbait rich kid' may possibly be the only acceptable compensation for this ridiculousness.  

It's from Alfor's days in service. Black goatskin leather, with the most kick- _ass_ red lion motif on the back and Alfor's name tag and Colonel insignia over the left breast. When Shiro transferred his first year he didn’t think he’d have to pack for the night life - he’d been so focused on getting that paper he never thought he’d have  _time_ to. Allura is correct in deducing the fanciest thing he owns is probably one of his henley’s that  _doesn’t_ have a hole in it, and Shiro’s argument for frugality is swiftly obliterated the moment Allura lists off ten people he knows who  _aren't_ here on a scholarship who  _don't_ dress like they've bought ten of the same outfit.

(Damn and she says it so sweetly it  _almost_ doesn't come across as a burn.   Side-effect of playing diplomat’s daughter from the formative age of five. Just imagine if Altea were a  _monarchy_.)

“ ** _Twelve o'clock, look alive_**.” Allura advises, right as Shiro spots a penultimately smashed octet of men and women, having failed to argue their case for with the bouncer and presently trying to force their way in. He also notices a sleek purple Lamborghini Aventador parked snug between two black nondescript SUVs. It's the flashiest, most expensive car he's seen tonight having only come across beamers and benzes. 

Anomaly. 

Man this whole bounty hunt venture's starting to make him think that maybe he should stop searching for patterns and start looking for  _breaks_  in patterns.

“Hey!” Shiro calls. “Pick on someone your own size!”

Three of their number glance over at Shiro and immediately lock on target, eager for a new punching bag to wail on. The closest cracks his knuckles.

“Tough guy, eh.”

“How ‘bout we pick  _you_?”

 _Finally_.

 ** _“I_** **heard**   ** _that,”_** Allura laughs.    ** _“And I strongly advise against it._ Damsel,  _remember?”_**

Shiro snorts and rolls his head around his shoulders, compromising.  “Well-Meaning-Good-Citizen-Damsel, then.”

Allura contemplates that for a few seconds.  ** _“I suppose one can’t fault that logic, so by all means, sell it. Just don’t--”_**

“- don’t oversell it, got it.”

**_“And don’t ruin the jacket. It’s...sentimental.”_ **

“And here I was thinking she’d say  _don’t die_ -”

Shiro dodges as the first drunk takes a swing, slugging the guy cleanly in the gut, winding him. The other two don't fare any better: one trips over his own feet, landing face-first in a puddle (which Shiro can't help but snicker at), the other bull charges, and gets diverted head first into the side mirror of the Aventador.

He turns for the next asshole, but the rest of the group have gone so wide-eyed and still, you’d have thought they’d been sobered up by the sight.  Even the bouncer, who has one of them in a sleeper hold goes pale, releases the woman from his grasp. She high-tails it out of there and a second later her friends follow, stumbling and tripping in their haste to get as far away from the apparent blast zone as possible.

Someone clicks their tongue before Shiro has a chance to make sense of it all. The voice that fills the abrupt silence is distorted and robotic; obviously a safeguard for keeping his identity underwraps, but the Know-It-All tone tells Shiro he’s about to piece this jigsaw together  _real soon_ , and the result isn’t going to be pleasant to behold.

“Uh-oh. Shouldn’t have done that pretty.” Spider-Boy says, leaning casually against the car that everyone is apparently losing their shit over.

“Spider-Boy!” Shiro manages, sensory overload chasing the rest of the thoughts running through his head before he can pin them down.

Somehow he'd figured the guy to be smaller - you know,  _spider-like_.  It just makes sense to be sufficiently agile and small enough to elude capture from both the authorities and the Galra when you draw the ire of both on a daily basis, but Spider-Man as he lives and breathes is only two inches shorter than Shiro. 

 _No, wait - he's slouching._  Make that one inch.

Humbling, how the disparate pieces fed to him by the media add up to more than the sum of the parts equating to the real-life breathing individual in front of him.   Or maybe the right word is  _mortifying_. Here Shiro is: fourth year engineering student on an all-expenses paid scholarship. Top of his year and shoo-in for Honors. Vice VUSA President. 

And somehow  _‘Spider-Boy!_ ’ in a choked up voice is what all those painstaking hours have amounted to.

“ _Man._ ” Spider-Boy - née -  _Man_ corrects haughtily, counting off the syllables with his fingers, “ _spi-der-man._    _Spider-Man_.  Only a  _boy_ would be dumb enough to put a dent in the  _consigliere’s_ favored steed.  _Vrepit Say,_  amirite?”

 _" **Consigliere. As in Galran mob?"**_ Allura muses. " ** _Shiro I think we should-_** "

"I got this Lu." Shiro promises.  Coming this far just to go home empty-handed? Belay that. 

Spider-Man gives a false salute to the bouncer who flips him off in response.

“ _Vrepit_   _sa_ , Spider- _Bitch_.” He scoffs.  “And you guys better make yourself scarce if you know what's good for you.”

“I'm loving the shades,” Spider-Man continues, know-it-all tone taking on a more pompous air.  “Are they prescription or is being impractical part of the JD."

Shiro doesn't know what this guy's playing at, picking a fight with a guy evidently twice Spider-man’s length and breadth, but then, he’s yet to confirm the rumors Allura’s talked about with his own two eyes. Maybe that's why he stays put and says nothing.

Lets the experiment run uninterrupted.  

The bouncer flashes a sidearm tucked into a holster beneath his blazer. “How about you come here and find out?” 

“Heh,  _classic_ Kotan.” Spider-Man chuckles.  

‘Kotan’ or whoever he is, nods at Shiro then turns heel and retreats back into the club - his restraint most likely the equivalent of a 'thank you'. A cacophony of bass-pumping EDM escapes as the steel door swings open, echoes briefly through the deserted street before Shiro and Spider-Man are left in the quiet again.

Shiro shoves his hands in his jacket pockets. Deftly flicks off the safety.

" ** _Shiro.._**." 

_I hope this works._

“And now on to business.” Spider-Man declares.  He pushes himself off the Aventador and turns fully toward Shiro.  “Lucky for you, the Don owns The Gauntlet, or we'd have to worry about-”

Shiro gets that blabbermouth square in the face with the knockout spray. Ten seconds of watching Spider-Man scream and recite every possible combination of swear word and death threat imaginable, blindly swiping and clawing at Shiro before the sedative kicks in, toppling like a felled tree at Shiro's feet.  

“Bee...zer…” Spider-Man groans, and is still.  Shiro waits a full minute, kicking him in the leg and waiting a few seconds more as a final measure. It could be a fakeout.

Nothing.

“And that’s that.”

Shiro shrugs, bending to scoop him up and staggering backward in surprise when he tries to hoist him over his shoulder.  This guy's got some serious weight to him even if he's only wearing spandex.

Allura clicks her tongue. “ ** _Bad form babe. Knees, not your back_**.  ** _You know; maybe I_ should  _have been down there..._  **”

“You know I  _did_ offer.” Shiro scoffs, rolling his eyes.  

“ ** _You did. A very un-convincing and uninspired argument, I might add.”_  **

“Hey, you’re the lawyer, not me.”

 ** _“Have to ace the bar first. See you in a tick._** ” Allura snickers, the comm switching off on her end before he can fire off a retort.

Thinks she’s so  _clever_.

 

. . . 

 

Matt isn’t a drinker.

Not for a lack of trying, just that nothing on Earth strong enough to outlast his metabolism has been invented.

Yet.  _‘Yet’_ is the operative word. Matt hasn’t been to space -  _yet_ \-  but he’s working on it, so watch this...you get the picture.

Still, even having never experienced one, he’s sure he’s just woken up with the hangover from hell; like an evil little leprechaun hopped into his ear while he was out and is now leisurely taking an icepick to his retinas.

Which, obviously implies that whatever knockout gas Shiro sprayed him in the face with has a special compound that,  _hypothetically_ , if Matt were to get his hands on the stuff, he  _could_ reverse engineer -

Christ.  Who turned on the sun? Can someone come turn it off now?  Why can’t he feel his arms? Who-

When Matt’s vision finally adjusts, the first thing his gaze tracks is the movement behind the lamp in his face - not overly concerned about the chains binding his hands and legs - to the bespoke,  _beautiful_  prosthesis holding the mask that looks exactly like –

Oh.

“...fuck.” Matt manages, hoarsely.

The arm’s owner moves into the light.  Sets the mask neatly on the table between them, then tilts the shade up to the ceiling, finally smiling at Matt, like he’s been waiting for this moment. All teeth and zero compassion. Even as Matt thinks that he could swoon at that smirk under more pleasant circumstances, the bile collecting in his throat again swiftly punches that thought in the gut.  Points out to Matt that even though he doesn't have the light directly in his face anymore, he's still inadvertently traded up for something much worse.

Any smile capable of gleaming ominously in dim lighting does not an ally make.  

“ _Hi_   _pretty_.” Shiro says. 


End file.
